


of the river flowing

by aresentfulcaretaker



Category: Coco Chanel & Igor Stravinsky (2009), Evening (2007)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 19:18:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15780426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aresentfulcaretaker/pseuds/aresentfulcaretaker
Summary: Buddy's family hosts a guest at their summer house on the Italian Riviera.Written for the Reel Hannibal 2018 Event, inspired by Call Me By Your Name.





	of the river flowing

Buddy rifles through the closet, looking for what he might want later. Behind him, Lizzie lies on the bed, staring out the window. Grabbing blindly for a shirt, he takes aim and lands it on her stomach. She gasps, her surprise turning quick to delight. She starts to say something but stops short. They hear a car coming up the drive.

“That must be him,” Buddy says. He crosses to the adjacent room. The window is already open. Leaning out, he sees the car pulling up and his parents walking out to meet it.

“Welcome!” His mother’s voice is shrill and obviously performative. His father is quiet and uncommitted. He’ll start putting on a show once he’s established himself.

Their guest gets out of the car. He’s smoking, has to trade his cigarette from one hand to the other for a handshake. Buddy can see the tension in his father’s arm, the effort he puts in. The man doesn’t notice, completely at ease. It makes Buddy smile.

Lizzie joins him, peering down as the group heads for the house. Buddy’s mother calls for him.

“I should go down.” He makes his tone apologetic, hoping she’ll understand she should be leaving.

His parents and the man are in the study. Really, it’s the den but Buddy’s father has claimed it, filled it with his history books and paintings. Works more for show than anything, as he lacks the capacity to appreciate them. No one is allowed in without express permission, least of all Buddy.

Of course, now is parents beckon him into the room, big smiles plastered onto their faces. His mother’s falters as she assess his clothing. She catches herself and introduces him.

“This is our youngest, Buddy. Oh, it’s such a shame his sister Lila is back in the states.”

“You’ll just have to make due with me,” Buddy says. He steps around a desk and offers his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

The man takes it, shaking it only once. “Igor.”

“Buddy, show him up to his room, won’t you?” His mother says.

Buddy obeys, hurrying without waiting to see if the man will follow. He rethinks this, though, reminding himself it’s not Igor he’s eager to get away from. Luckily, Igor seems unbothered, following behind with is his hands in his pockets, eyes wandering over the interiors.

They meet Lizzie halfway. She says a quick goodbye to Buddy. Then she greets Igor, kissing each of his cheeks. He accepts and steps aside to let her pass.

Buddy begins to speak as they reach their rooms. “This is yours. Mine is next door. We have to share the bathroom. It’s my only way out.”

Moving on, Buddy grabs a few of his remaining things off the bed, cutting through the bathroom to deposit them in his territory. When he returns, Igor is already lying down. For the first time, Buddy notices how ill suited his sweater is for the weather. Igor must be burning up.

There’s more to say but before Buddy can continue, Igor is asleep. He doesn’t look particularly comfortable, his feet still planted on the floor, middle bent, head just short of the pillow.

Buddy leaves him as he is, shutting the door softly behind him.

\\\

A few hours later, the dinner bell rings. Buddy is writing at his desk. Or, at least, he's sat there, pencil to the page, trying. His headset plays fast, mindless music. He almost doesn’t hear the call.

When he does, he heeds it. Heading out the bathroom, he passes the door to Igor’s room. It occurs to him he might not know what the bell means. Lightly, he knocks. No response. Again, harder. Nothing.

“I’m coming in,” he warns.

Igor is still asleep, now shifted onto his side. Buddy looks him over as he decides the best way to wake him. He imagines approaching, hand outstretched with full intention of touch. It’s a small thrill.

Instead, he tiptoes over to a table beside the bed. Picking one of the heavier books, he weighs it in hand once, twice, three times and drops it.

Jolting awake, Igor inhales fast through his nose and whips his head around. His eyes settle on Buddy, confusion turning to recognition, grogginess to clarity. Buddy realizes that he should speak.

“We’re being called for dinner.” He doesn’t know why he’s embarrassed.

Igor toes his shoes off the side of the bed. “I’ll pass. Make an excuse for me, will you?”

Buddy is thrown by this answer. Luckily, his fumbling goes unnoticed. Igor is getting comfortable, getting his head up on the pillow, undoing his belt, taking off his glasses.

The dismissal reaches Buddy. Feeling foolish, he hurries off to eat.

\\\

The next morning, they’re halfway through breakfast when Igor finally joins them. Buddy’s mother snaps her fingers, calling the help to bring out tarts and espresso. Before he’s spread the napkin over his lap, Igor has more food before him than he could stomach.

Zeroing in on the eggs, sat half submerged in a pot of cooling water, he points to one. “Soft boiled?”

“Yes. Please, have one,” Buddy’s mother says. She’s so enthusiastic, Buddy almost feels bad. He can tell Igor doesn’t want one.

Not soft boiled, anyway. When the cook returns, Igor asks for two raw eggs. He cracks them into a glass and tosses them back. His parents look away, horrified, but Buddy watches closely. Without meaning to, he catches Igor’s eye. The smile he receives, conspiratorial, thrills him.

“I can show you around,” Buddy says, a bit later.

“Give him you friend’s bike,” his father says. “Or yours.”

“Whose should I take then?”

“The gardener's? He’ll be working all day in the orchard.”

“So it is your orchard?” Igor asks.

“We own it, yes. Usually it doesn’t look such a mess.”

“I thought it looked rather nice.”

Buddy is happy to agree.

\\\

The bikes lean against the side of the house. Buddy isn’t sure whose they are but he makes sure Igor gets the better of the two.

As they’re walk to the road, Igor asks, “Is there a bank in town?”

“A bank? What for?”

“I’d like to open an account while I’m here.”

None of the previous residents has ever had their own bank account before. “We could try Montodine. Though, they might be closed for the summer. Maybe Crema.”

“Crema,” Igor repeats. He pats his pockets, searching and finding a half used pack of cigarettes. He takes one out and puts it away without offering one to Buddy. It feels a slight.

\\\

Buddy is right about Crema. They visit the bank, get the account opened. Business done, they turn to pleasure. Coffee and pastries, a table in the sun.

Buddy reads. He always has a few books in his backpack, Similarly, Igor always has a sketchbook. He keeps it tucked into the back of his belt, like a gun. Its pages are prepared with the blank lines of a music staff. Igor scribbles notes in with a pen, trading it occasionally for a pencil of red or blue.

“What does one do around here?” Igor asks, concentration broken. He surveys the vacant square and its dusty, old buildings. “What do you do?”

“Sleep, read. Write, if I’m lucky.”

“You’re a writer.”

“Depending on your definition.”

“Never published anything?”

“Never finished anything. Well, never start. I can never think of where to start.”

“What is it about beginnings?”

“You need the right first line. It’s got to be perfect.” He looks at the sketchbook, at the black, red, and blue. “Isn’t it the same for you?”

Igor looks down, too. Then he shuts his book. “No.”

The clock tower chimes and Igor stands, preparing to leave. Buddy begins to follow but corrects himself. He is probably not invited. Taking up his book, he searches for the marker. Igor mounts his bike and speeds off.

\\\

Buddy doesn’t see Igor again until the next afternoon. His father has cornered him in the study. Igor looks bored, his good manners waning. He perks up when he sees Buddy, beckons him in.

“We were just discussing Russian literature and history,” Igor tells Buddy.

“Still haven’t gotten around to reading any, have you?” Buddy’s father asks.

“No,” Buddy admits. It’s difficult to do in front of Igor. He isn’t familiar with the short comings and failures that make up Buddy’s identity. It’s always hard to destroy that superficial first impression.

“You like American authors?” Igor asks. No condescension, no malice.

“Mostly, yes.”

“You’ll have to recommend something for me.”

“I’ve got quite an extensive collection here,” his father says, gesturing to the far wall.

“Do you borrow them out?” Igor asks like he knows the answer, like he’s reminding Buddy’s father of it.

“If you’d like to read something, just ask.”

“I appreciate it,” Igor says. He and Buddy exchange another of those wonderful conspiratorial looks.

An hour later, when his father finally tires of his pseudo-intellectual peacocking, Buddy heads outside, thinking he might go to town. Igor catches up to him at the front door.

“There’s a book shop in town, isn’t there?” he asks. “Why don’t we go. You can help me choose something.”

They set out on their bikes, Buddy leading the way.

The shop is mostly empty. There seems to have been a celebration of some sort, little glasses of wine and trays of pastries lying around, empties littering the edges of tables and the floor.

Buddy leads the way to the tiny section of English language books. Igor stops them more than once to peruse.

“How many languages do you speak?” Buddy asks.

“Fluently? Three or four.”

Buddy blinks. “But… which is it?”

Igor looks away from a book he’s picked up. One written in French. “It’s not so consistent. Someday words come easy, other times, you speak like a child. I’ve only studied three formally, the rest are self taught and imperfect. I’ve never taken any tests either. I can only judge my proficiency by how well natives understand.”

Buddy digests. “I understand you perfectly. So you’d consider your English fluent?”

“Perfectly,” Igor repeats. “The accent’s not so bad?”

More surprise. “Not at all.”

“I overheard your mother complaining about it.”

“She does that. She doesn’t mean anything by it. Creating problems helps her pass the time.”

“Was I her idea then?”

Buddy shrugs. Having found what he was looking for, he focuses on the books, scanning their spines, trying to decide which to pick. He has to get this right. Feeling the weight of the silence he’s caused, he answers to stall.

“I think it was more competitive. A woman not far down the coast invited some eccentric hunting enthusiast to stay with her.” Buddy ventures a look up at Igor. “You’re our eccentric.”

“I know her, the woman,” Igor says. “She’s the one that gave me your parents number.”

 _The Great Gatsby_ , Buddy decides. He takes it off the shelf and offers it. “I don’t think they’d like that very much.”

“Then we best keep it between us."

\\\

After the bookshop, Igor asks Buddy to help him find a certain address. It leads them to a small office belongs to a company that manufactures mechanical pianos. Igor explains that he makes a nice bit of money on the side transcribing music for them. He regularly takes on orders in Paris and plans to here, as well.

Next, Igor takes them to a small cafe.

Most of the chairs have been pulled around a single cluster of tables. Men of middle age, some older, surround it. They wait for the dealer to finish shuffling. The dealer, it seems, has been waiting for Igor.

Buddy stalls at the front counter, watching. Igor spots him and nods an invitation. Relieved and a little too eager, Buddy pulls up a chair beside him.

“How’d you know about this place?” He asks, quiet. There’s no need to be. Everyone is caught up in a loud, animated conversation in Italian.

Igor doesn’t answer. But his bank account makes sense now. Another secret to be kept between them. Buddy watches him take our his wallet as the game begins.

\\\

The sun blazes overhead. The younger residents play volleyball, their laughter and shouts natural as birdsong.

Lizzie has taken it upon herself to round up the adults for a game of their own. She stands beside him, surveying the group as it divides.

“I like him,” she says, eyes on Igor where he’s warming up in the corner of the field.

“Because he’s agreed to play in your game?” Buddy asks. He’s watching Igor, too.

“No. There’s just something about him.”

A woman joins Igor. They greet each other with kisses and speak with their heads close together.

“Is that – “

“Coco, yeah. She was down by the shore.” Lizzie points. “And that’s the man she has staying with her, Dmitri.”

Buddy looks where he’s directed. Dmirti seems young. Or just immature. He’s at the center of crowd, telling a story with wild exaggeration, shouting, and grinning. He’s on the team opposing Coco and Igor.

Igor, as it turns out, is quite the athlete. He darts around the field, picking up his teammates’ slack. With every point scored, he inflates. Coco, a fair player herself, celebrates with him, shooting smug looks at Dmitri.

Buddy watches until the heat is too much. He takes off his shirt and shoes, decides to get himself some water. Tall glass bottles stand waiting at the other end of the yard. He fetches one, guzzling half on the way back. Lizzie puts her hand out, tells him to share. It’s almost in her grasp when Igor intercepts it.

“Perfect timing,” he says. He’s traded his spectacles for shades. Without his eyes, it’s difficult to read his expression. His hand settles on Buddy’s shoulder. It massages the muscle there, fingers kneading into him. It feels good and he wants to welcome it but there are so many people, so many pairs of eyes, so many minds to make assumptions.

So Buddy shrugs him off.

“What’s wrong?” Igor asks, still breathless from the game and the sprint over. “I touch a nerve?”

“I’m okay.”

Igor presses the bottle to Buddy’s belly. “Hold this.”

Buddy does, not realizing why Igor wants his hands free. They return to his back, now with more intention. Buddy stifles a sound of surprise.

“You’re tense,” Igor tells him.

“I’m fine.”

“Stressed.”

“I’m not stressed,” Buddy’s says, too loud.

“Igor!” The players call him back, eager to continue. Igor’s hands migrate up, to Buddy’s traps. He gives a firm squeeze - a goodbye - and bounds off to join them.

“You really should relax more,” Lizzie says, playful. She takes the water.

He leaves her there, heading off across the grass, back to the house. On the field, Igor sets a perfect serve.

\\\

Igor skips dinner without telling anyone ahead. His place is set across from Buddy’s. The longer he has to look at it, the angrier he feels.

There’s sparkling wine. Buddy’s glass is the fullest. By his third, the glares from his father aren’t aren’t so hard to ignore.

His mother doesn’t notice. She’s too focused on their missing guest. “Arrogant, isn’t it? His behavior. Ungrateful.”

“He’s probably just visiting Coco,” someone else says. “They haven’t seen each other in a very long time.”

“Then why didn’t she invite him to stay? Lord knows her house is big enough.”

Igor’s place is cleared. Buddy tops off his glass.

\\\

After a night of fitful sleep, Buddy doesn’t want to do anything but lay in bed. He’s hungover, though it's not so bad. Worse than it was a few years ago. He hopes he won’t have to start acting his age just because he’s body’s decided to start feeling it.

Their housekeeper says everyone is going down to the river for swimming and picnics. He tells her he’ll be staying home.

The emptiness of the house is pleasant. Buddy feels more awake, though he stills doesn’t want to get up. He chooses instead to daydream. He runs through original stories and ideas, fixes mistakes he’s made these past few weeks. It’s not long until the passive urge to move makes him restless. He decides to masturbate.

It’s more meditative than anything, lulling his mind deeper into itself. It’s why he doesn’t hear the footsteps until they’re at the door. He pulls his hand out of his shorts and scrambles for the book beside his pillow.

Two knocks and the door is open.

“Hello,” Igor says. He’s shirtless, dressed in green Adidas swim shorts.

Buddy, trying to appear relaxed, “Hey.”

“What’s that?”

“A book,” Buddy answers stupidly. Then, “Oh, _Anna Karenina_.”

Igor smiles. “Russian literature.”

“Yeah.” Buddy’s is forced.

“Why aren’t you with everyone else?”

“I’ve got an allergy.” Buddy usually uses that to cover for his drinking.

“Me too, actually.”

“I don’t think – “

“Let’s go swimming.”

“Swimming?”

“Yes, why not? Come on.”

Buddy has no time to react before Igor is there at the side of the bed, hand extended. He takes Buddy’s in his, tries to help him up.

Buddy resists. He’s hard enough for it to show. Igor sees, he’s sure of it. He lets go of Buddy’s hand.

“Meet me downstairs,” he says and leaves to change.

Buddy sits very still as a wave of humiliation washes over him. He hates how familiar the sensation is becoming.

\\\

The pool is small but deep. Igor swims stunted laps, his body distorted beneath the water, a blur. Buddy is beginning to think of him like that, in motion perpetually. A photograph taken of a moving target. Perhaps that’s how he’ll remember him, too, when he’s gone.

But now, in the present, Igor has stopped. He’s come up for air.

“What are you doing?” He asks.

Buddy is sitting at the edge of the pool, pen in hand, notebook open. Page empty. “Writing.”

“No, you’re not.” Igor pushes off and glides over in one smooth motion. He stops close but not too close. Buddy wonders if after this morning he finds him distasteful. But the only thing his expression gives away is amusement.

“Thinking, then.”

“About?”

Buddy feels a phantom pinch somewhere in his shoulder. “Nothing.”

“Thinking about nothing? You don’t want to tell me?”

“It’s nothing, really. It’s private.”

“Well, alright.”

He goes back to his laps. Buddy goes back to his thoughts.

\\\

A piano song drifts through the yard, reaching out to its edges, reaching Buddy. Notes get lost along the way but even incomplete it is beautiful.

It stops, abrupt. Its absence draws Buddy’s attention to the house. He expects Igor to appear at the back door, to join those at the table. Minutes pass, nothing. No one else notices.

It feels a risk to go searching but Buddy is already a little drunk. A little risk is not enough to stop him.

He finds Igor still at the piano, glaring at the sheet music.

“That was nice,” Buddy says, mostly to gauge the mood. “Why’d you stop?”

Igor swivels on the bench. His expression is hard. He doesn’t speak. He turns back and begins to play.

It’s similar. So similar Buddy nearly mistakes it as same piece. But there are differences. Ones he doesn’t like. When Igor finishes, he asks, “Did you change it?”

“A little.” He plays again. Different again.

“But… I liked it before. What was the problem with that way?”

“The whole piece is a problem.” Igor picks up his red pencil and strikes a bleeding wound through the center. “The notes don’t make sense. None of it makes sense.”

Buddy knows that he and Igor are on different ends of the creative spectrum, both when it comes to capability and quality. But this feeling is one he recognizes, one he is familiar with.

“Maybe it did when you wrote it.”

Igor doesn’t react. Buddy thinks perhaps he didn't hear. But then his shoulders go slack and he sighs deep. He takes his glasses off and presses his fingers into the bridge of his nose.

Buddy comes closer and sits down on an armchair. It's behind Igor so when he speaks his voice is distant.

“That might be the kindest thing anyone’s said to me in months.”

“Kind?”

Igor puts his glasses back on and begins to play again. It’s the first version of the piece. Each note falls, soft and quiet. Buddy doubts it can be heard outside. This time, it’s for him alone.

\\\

Buddy goes out that night. He meets Lizzie and some friends at a restaurant. They sit outdoors, order drinks, share cigarettes, and watch the dancers.

“Look who it is,” someone says in Italian. Buddy follows the pointed finger to Coco. She’s dressed head to toe in magnificent white. At first, Buddy thinks the man beside her is Dmitri. Then he turns and shows his face. It’s Igor.

“I heard Dmitri was already packing,” another friend says.

“Something about those two,” of Coco and Igor. “When they’re together, there’s no room for anyone else.”

Buddy drains his glass just as Lizzie arrives back with more from the bar. She hands him his and sits down beside him.

“Oh, I love to watch her dance,” she says, joining in.

Buddy nods, smile tight, gaze trained on the couple. He takes a long drag off his cigarette and burns his tongue a little more than is pleasant. Ashes falls to his lap. His drink is empty again.

Their small group cheers as Coco and Igor kiss, still swaying to the music, oblivious.

More smoke, more drink. His body burns but Buddy knows what he’s doing. He lets himself descend, hopes he’ll make it home alright. They get up, they’re dancing, too. With all the glory of a pop song he spends the rest of the night suffering.

\\\

Buddy wakes to the sound of a door shut. Igor going down to breakfast.

It takes him a few minutes to realize he’s not in his bed but lying across the bathroom floor. His head is near the toilet. It’s covered in vomit. The doors are open on both ends. It’s certain he’s been seen.

He gets his limbs up under him. He closes Igor’s door and the toilet lid. Sitting on it, he rests to keep from being sick again.

A bit of red catches his eye. A pair of Igor’s swim shorts hang drying from the tub faucet. The sight of them makes something swell in Buddy’s chest, makes him ache, brings him to tears.

\\\

Once cleaned up, Buddy heads downstairs. He assumes everyone else is finished with breakfast and that he’ll have the kitchen to himself. He’s wrong.

His mother and father sit on one side of the table, Coco and Igor on the other. He’s got an arm around her. An empty cup sits before him, dripping with egg residue, beside a teeming ashtray.

“Rough night, son?” His father asks, first to spot him. The disapproval in his voice tells Buddy he wasn’t quiet getting in.

“Something like that.” Buddy says. He decides this isn’t how he wants to begin his day. He begins to backtrack into the house. Before he can disappear completely, Coco speaks to him.

“It’s good to see you, Buddy,” she says with her lovely accent. There’s amusement in her eyes, a barely contained smile. He knows it should make him uncomfortable but it only makes him like her. He wishes he didn’t.

“You, too,” he says over his shoulder. And then he is gone.

\\\

He goes into town on his own. Leaves his bike where he knows it’ll be safe and walks to the bookshop he and Igor had visited. It’s even emptier. No one is near the little English language section.

Feeling courageous, Buddy ventures over to language studies. He selects beginners courses in French, Italian, and Russian. He pays and goes to a cafe. The same one he’d brought Igor to. He orders a cappuccino and thinks about Harris.

The year after Harris came to stay had been a bad one for Buddy. It was the reason his parents stopped inviting guests to stay for the summer. Years later, here they are trying again and already Buddy is poised to make the same mistakes.

But Igor is not like Harris. He’s more driven, dedicated to his work and craft. He’s older, better acquainted with himself, with his wants and needs. He doesn’t mind seeming peculiar or being misunderstood.

Like his relationship with Coco. Buddy might not fully understand it but he knows no one else does either. None but Coco and Igor themselves. And how wonderful that must be, how intimate. To have something so private it confounds all but those included. What Buddy wouldn’t give to have that. Or just to be able to write about it. Perhaps he will try.

\\\

The next day, Buddy finds himself alone once more. His parents are out, Igor has disappeared. He roams the house, his mind vibrating from espresso. He sits at the piano, poking at the keys. He goes upstairs, intent on taking a nap or wasting some good hours trying.

On the way, he stops outside Igor’s door. It occurs to him this might have been his intention all along. Before he can act on it, he hears the housekeeper approaching. He hurries to the next door and enters his room through the bathroom. He seizes a book and hopes he is convincing.

She knocks, staying only long enough to put some clean clothes on the bed. He waits until her footsteps descend the stairs. Then it’s back through the bathroom.

Buddy finds Igor’s door unlocked and lets himself in. Part of him wants to turn back. He doesn’t. He must be careful of this courage he finds while on his own.

He assesses the room first, measures it against how he remembers leaving it. Pieces of Igor sit like accents on a staff, creating subtle and unsubtle forthright changes.

Next, he begins to touch. Brushing a hand over scattered sheet music, fingering the hem of once worn slacks. He spots the red swimsuit hanging over the bed’s headboard. He goes to it, picks it up, and sits down. He runs the fabric through his hands, feels every fiber in the scrunched elastic waist. Shifting onto his belly, he pauses. Falters. Even alone it’s difficult to do what he wants.

So he pretends to be casual. He arranges the waistband in a wide circle, uninterested. As if he’s not hoping to find a hair caught in the lining. He presses his face to the center as if his neck has grown tired. He holds his breath as long as he can.

Then he lets it go and his shame with it. He inhales deep, seeking to take in whatever remnants of Igor have been left behind. What is real and what is imagined doesn’t matter. He pulls the shorts over his head, grinds his face down until he’s certain the pattern of the mesh lining is imprinted on his face.

He’s hard but he doesn’t touch himself. He doesn’t want relief or fulfillment. Just wants to stay discontent, exposed as a nerve, unable to feel or exhibit anything else. Let Igor come and find him, let him look with disgust, with whatever he might. Let that be real, let it be honest. Let Buddy be honest with someone. With himself.

Big talk, quickly quashed. Voices rise from the yard, coming in the window like great black flies. Buddy’s heart stops. He hurries off the bed and tries to make it look as though he was never there.

Heart pounding, Buddy arranges himself at his desk. No one enters the house or comes up the stairs. The voices fade.

Staring down at the blank page, Buddy thinks about Igor. He summons up an image of him. There he is in a blur, diving for the volleyball, hands clasped ready. On the dance floor. Waving goodbye with a cigarette between his fingers. Buddy allows these memories to fill him up. And, finally, he begins to write.

\\\

The summer heat breaks. Rain pours. There are power outages along the coast. Everyone stays in, gathering in the living room. Buddy chooses a record. Igor helps.

Someone is trying to call but they can’t get through. It’s not until the evening that they’re able to answer. It’s Lila.

His parents crowd the phone, both trying to speak at once.

“Come say hello, Buddy.” His mother holds out the phone.

“I’ll use the one in the hall.”

The phone is atop a small table, surrounded by pads and loose pens. Buddy sits in the chair beside it, picking up the receiver. He waits until sure he’s his parents aren’t listening. “Hey, can you hear me?”

“I can! Of course, I can! How are you, little brother?”

She sounds happy. It’s been a while since anyone has been happy to talk to Buddy. And it’s because of this he dodges her question, not wanting to lie. “What time is it where you are?”

She tells him that and about her life. About her new apartment, her new man. He envies how thoroughly she’s moved on from Harris. But it wasn’t the same for her.

The conversation wanes. Their goodbyes draw near. Buddy has his ready but then Lila introduces a new topic.

“Mother told me about the guest this year.”

He tries not to leave too long a silence, to give too much away. “Yeah?”

“Do you like him?” 

“Yeah,” he says, his voice dropping. “Yes, I do.”

“What’s he like?”

“I thought you said mom told you.”

“What’s he like with you?”

That’s a good question. Buddy isn’t sure, hasn’t thought about it. He’s been so caught up in his own perspective and behavior.

“I don’t know,” he says.

“You don’t want to tell me?”

“No, really, I don’t know.”

“Maybe you should figure that out.”

He has no response for that. Lila can tell and so she begins to say goodbye.

“I miss you,” he tells her, before she hangs up.

“I miss you, too, little brother.”

\\\

“We haven’t spent much time together lately.”

Buddy stops writing. He’s lying in the lawn chair by the pool. Igor sits with one leg dangling in the water. A few feet away.

“Do you want to spend time with me?” Buddy asks.

Igor looks up at the sky. “What are you doing today?”

“Nothing.”.

“I have to go to town, pick up some music for transcribing. Why don’t we go together?”

“Now?”

“Now. Unless you’re – “

“I’m not.”

“I can respect a man that wants to focus on his work.”

“It can wait,” Buddy stands and steps away from his writing, as if to demonstrate. “Let’s go.”

Buddy volunteers his backpack for carrying Igor’s things as well. He doesn’t mind the extra weight. And it’s incentive to keep Igor from leaving, if nothing else.

They set off for town. The sun is shining in a clear sky. The ground is dry. It’s hard to believe it rained at all.

Their first stop is at a small shop to buy cigarettes. Buddy waits with the bikes. When Igor reemerges, he’s already got one lit. He holds up the box as he approaches. Buddy nods yes and Igor gets one out for him. He steps up close and lights it, too.

Buddy wonders how they’d look captured in a photo. Igor, not in motion, still and close. He tries to put it into prose, to imagine them described in detail. He knows he will forget before he can write it down.

The cigarettes and lighter go into the backpack. They move on, trailing smoke.

At the center of the square, there’s a monument. They lean their bikes up against it and walk. Igor asks about the statue. Buddy knows nothing about it and says as much.

“Do you really not know? Or do you just not want to tell me?”

“I really don’t know.”

“You don’t like talking to me.” He states it like a fact, without neediness or hurt. His attention isn’t even on Buddy. It’s on the monument’s plaque.

Buddy is completely caught off guard. “What?”

“You never tell me what you’re thinking.”

“It’s never worth sharing.”

Igor looks at him then, frowning.

“What?” Buddy asks, lost, looking for footing.

“You’re always putting yourself down. Why?”

“I don’t know. So you won’t?”

“Are you afraid of me?”

The question is broader than their topic of discussion, Buddy can tell. But he doesn’t want to answer it and so he plays dumb. “No, I didn’t mean – Not just you. Everyone. In general.”

Igor finishes his cigarette. He drops it to the pavement and crushes it. They sit in Buddy’s stuttered awkwardness until he breaks and speaks again.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“You’re careful around me.”

“I have to be.”

“Why?”

Softly, “You already know why.”

Igor looks at him. Or maybe past him. His sunglasses hide his line of sight. So much is lost beneath them. His microexpressions begin there, in his eyes. Buddy can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“I need to pick up those pages. Wait here.” Igor, says. He doesn’t wait for a response, for Buddy to agree. He knows he’s not going anywhere.

Left alone, regret and fear overtake Buddy. Igor understood him, he’s certain. He’s confessed, admitted to having feelings he shouldn’t. Now comes the fallout, the punishment.

Looking for an anchor, Buddy brings his cigarette to his lips. It’s down to the filter, dead. He holds on to it, anyway, not ready to be empty handed.

When Igor comes back, he has no papers. “They have nothing new for me. I don’t have anything to work on tonight.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.” Buddy hopes it comes off calm. Calmer than he feels.

Igor’s expression goes blank. “Then we won’t talk about it again.”

They return to their bikes. Igor mounts his. Buddy keeps his feet on the ground, holds tight to the handlebars, and tries to keep himself from speaking. He crushes the cigarette butt between his fingers and fails.

“Does this mean we won’t be spending anymore time together?”

Igor goes still in Buddy’s peripheral vision. There’s a terrible pause before the answer. Buddy’s heart crawls into his throat.

“It means you should decide what you want before you try asking for it.”

\\\

 

They move past the subject, finding their conversational norm. Buddy suggests an afternoon ride since Igor has nothing to do. They set out with the chiming of church bells.

Igor doesn’t ask where they’re going. Maybe he thinks they have no destination. Buddy has one in mind but keeps it to himself.

There’s an element of unavoidable solitude involved with bicycles. Buddy is acutely aware of this. Igor pedals along ahead, humming to himself, lost in thought.

His words echo through Buddy’s head, unsettling him like the uneven earth of these country roads. He’s left with questions and, worst of all, hope.

Their shoes and socks grow heavy with dust and their legs tire. Buddy recognizes the small path he means to take them down. He speeds ahead, turns off the road. Igor follows easily.

The grassy ground dips to form a small valley. It holds a collection of shallow ponds surrounded by big beautiful trees. Their shadows create a wide skirt of shade around the edge of the clearing. But at the center, the water glistens clean and clear in the sunshine.

They slip off their shoes. Buddy wades in, up to his ankles in the cool mountain water. He raises his voice to speak. “This is my spot. Well, I like to think of it as mine. I come here to read, to drink. To sleep.”

Igor looks around with genuine appreciation. He steps into the water, jumping back at the unexpectedly temperature. His face takes on a determined expression and he tries again, planting his feet in the shallows. Showing the pond who’s boss. Buddy watches him, finding every bit of this endearing. Igor doesn’t notice his spectating. He washes his face, smooths his hair back. His shades are off, hung from the front of his shirt. He turns his face to the sun, shut his eyes and stands still, soaking it in. Another picture perfect moment.

They’re less apart than they were on the bikes. Buddy still feels a distance. He wants Igor’s attention and seeks it like a child. He kicks a splash of water at him. It falls short, harmless. Igor kicks one back and then approaches him until his toes cover Buddy’s.

”You make things difficult, you know,” he says.

“For who?”

“For yourself. For me.”

Igor steps away, glancing over his shoulder to let Buddy know he’s meant to follow. They climb out and lie in the shade of a nearby tree. Side by side, there on their backs, they share a view. One that is simultaneously vast and small. It feels like they’re the only two people left in the world.

“I know what I want,” Buddy says, quietly. So quiet he thinks the breeze may have carried off his words.

They do not go unheard. Igor sits up, balancing on one elbow. He looks at Buddy, scans his face, his body. He reaches out and runs his knuckles over Buddy’s cheek, traces his lips with a single finger. The tip skirts the edge of moisture just inside Buddy’s mouth. He wants it to slip deeper, wants to suck on it. But then the finger is gone.

He leans in. He’s meant to. Igor’s hand returns to cup his chin and guide him further forward. Their lips touch. Fantasy and reality meet. Buddy goes still, afraid to react. Igor brings his face closer, his hand moving to the back of Buddy’s neck.

One kiss, that’s all he’s given. Then Igor draws back, holds Buddy back. That treacherous hand keeps him at bay. It feels like rejection, like a trick. Buddy braces himself for what’s sure to come next.

“You have to be certain,” Igor says, sitting up all the way. There’s fondness in his voice, genuine affection. “Or things could end badly.”

Buddy hasn’t thought about that yet. He’s barely been able to fathom a beginning.

“What do you mean?” He asks.

Igor looks down at him. His head eclipses the sun, blocks it out. His darkened face is all Buddy can see.

“Just let me know when you’re certain,” he says. “When you’re ready.”

They stand and head back to the bikes.

\\\

Coco visits again the next day. She and Igor sit side by side, his arm stretched over the back of her chair. They dip in and out of the conversation. Knowing that none of the Wittenborns speak French, they switch to it often, holding their own discussion on the side.

Buddy, who’s been studying, gets a small thrill out of understanding portions of their dialogue. He finds it fascinating how people’s voices change between languages, and how they don’t. Igor’s always retains a heaviness. It’s nothing to do with accent. Buddy struggles with how to explain. It’s then he knows he’s had too much to drink.

He excuses himself and retreats into the house. Most of the curtains are drawn, making every room shady and cool. He stumbles to a small hallway behind the kitchen and collapses to the floor.

Not long after, someone comes to find him. His mother, he guesses. But he is wrong.

“Alright?” Igor stands at the end of the hall. He sounds so concerned, Buddy wants to curl up in his arms.

He settles for reaching out a hand. “Sit.”

Igor takes the offered hand and sits. Tugging on his arm, Buddy asks Igor to wrap it around him. Igor complies.

“You stink of wine,” he tells him.

“You stink of No. 5.”

“You should eat something.” Igor speaks the words into Buddy’s hair, presses a little kiss to his curls.

Buddy falls asleep like that, smiling despite himself.

\\\

He wakes up alone. The house is empty, the table vacant. Everyone has dispersed and left him behind.

Out in the yard, he doesn’t notice her at first. She’s on a bench hidden beneath a curtain of shade.

“Are you feeling better?” Coco asks when he’s within earshot. She looks so stylish, smoking, bathing suit beneath her white dress.

Yeah, much better,” Buddy takes a seat beside her. “Did you enjoy your lunch?”

“Yes,” She offers her cigarette to share. “I don’t think your parents like me.”

He accepts it. “They don’t like me much either.”

“Then I must be in good company.” Her smile is catching, Buddy returns it.

The cook arrives to clear the table. The two of them watch as she pours some of the leftover espresso into a clean glass and dips in a cookie.

“Were you looking for Igor?” Coco asks.

“No. Where is he?”

“I couldn’t say.” She takes her turn on the cigarette. “Do you like his music?”

“What I’ve heard of it. He doesn’t play much.”

“He doesn’t like your piano. The one I keep for him is much better. You should visit with him sometime.”

Buddy frowns. “He uses your piano?”

“Yes. He chose it himself, actually. Though at the time it was for my villa in France.”

“I thought – why wouldn’t he just stay with you then?”

“Over the years, he and I have come to an understanding. Distance is important. Necessary. Things end badly if we’re too close, you see.”

The answer is more than the question required. There’s something in the way she says it. Like she knows the questions he really wants to ask. Like she knows the answers he needs.

“You’re sure you don’t know where he is?”

“Not a clue.”

He leaves her there, a fresh cigarette already on her lips.

\\\

He returns home late in the evening, his search for Igor fruitless.

It’s frustrating. He has things to say. That brief encounter with Coco solidified his resolve. He’s ready, he must tell Igor he’s ready.

Unable to wait, he puts the words down on paper. He writes Igor a note and slips it under the door.

And then, to hide, to celebrate, to pass the time, he drinks.

\\\

The note that’s waiting for him on his desk the next afternoon is short and sweet. It simply reads, _Midnight._

Buddy’s father takes Igor out sailing for the day. The boats cuts through the waves in the distance. Buddy watches it until he can’t sit still anymore. He goes out, finds Lizzie, shops with her. Orders water with lunch. Time crawls despite their fun. Midnight feels a millennia away.

But, like all future things, it arrives.

Igor is out on the balcony, waiting. He looks over his shoulder when he hears the doors. “I’m glad you came.”

Buddy joins him, searching the words for insincerity. A hand covers his and he stops. Igor brushes his thumb in a gentle circle over Buddy’s tendons and veins. There’s a cigarette between his fingers, its cherry glowing in the dark.

They walk back to the room – Igor’s room – doing their best to be quiet. Buddy gets there first, finding a place against the foot of the bed to lean.

There’s an ashtray on the bed. Igor goes to crush his cigarette out. Buddy stops him, tries to take it from him. Igor won’t allow it. He wants to hold it to Buddy’s mouth himself.

Testing boundaries, Buddy moves so that they’re touching shoulder to hip. He pushes away from the bed and, carefully, leans forward. His forehead connects with Igor’s clavicle. Arms encircle him and an ache begins in his chest. He is overcome and instinct moves him.

He put his arms around Igor’s neck. He wraps his legs around him, too, trying to climb him. Igor lets him, holds him until he puts his feet back on the ground.

Igor’s hands move to his face, keeping him still so he can look Buddy in the eyes.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Igor says.

And he does. First on his cheek, then his temple, then the forehead. Igor’s mustache brushes his skin each time. Buddy wants to feel it against his own upper lip and seeks to make their mouths meet. But the hands still on his jaw turn him and Igor kisses his throat instead.

Igor tries to move away, to close the door. Buddy stops him and replaces himself. He tries to communicate that he doesn’t want any teasing tonight. Only tenderness.

The mood settles. The door is shut. They sit down on the bed side by side. Igor slips off his shoes, his bare feet pale in the moonlight. Buddy slides one of his feet atop Igor’s, reminiscent of their day at the pond. Igor moves his free foot to rest atop Buddy’s. Neither speaks. Buddy can’t yet bring himself to.

Igor moves the ashtray from the bed giving him a moment to collect himself. That patience alone recalls in Buddy the anticipation and joy he’s felt all day.

Careful, determined not to be clumsy, Buddy straddles Igor and kisses him. He keeps his eyes open as he does. He watches Igor’s fall shut as their lips meet.

The power shifts. Igor takes control and Buddy welcomes it. He deepens the kiss, pulls Buddy close. His hands slide up beneath his shirt. Buddy yanks it up over his head by the collar and tosses it away. He wants to help Igor with his but for a paralyzing moment he is the sole focus of the moment. His chest and belly are peppered with kisses, the peaks and valleys of his torso traced and touched . Buddy can’t hold himself up and so he falls to the side.

He’s handled onto his back. Igor gets on top of him, bare chested now, too. He unbuckles and removes his belt in one fluid motion. Buddy scrambles to help with his fly.

\\\

The night passes outside until early morning light replaces it. Buddy lies half atop Igor with his head on his shoulder. Their legs are intertwined. Igor runs a hand through his hair.

He stops and audibly wets his lips. Buddy tilts his head up, wondering if it’s time to begin again. But Igor is only preparing to speak. He tells Buddy he’d like to try something.

“Call me by your name,” he says, whispered and low. “Call me by your name and I’ll call you by mine.”

Buddy doesn’t understand at first, wants to question it. But he also wants to please Igor and, hesitantly, he tries it. He says his name plainly. Igor smiles appreciatively and responds with his own name. But it is different, steeped in emotion. Buddy understands then and tries once more, this time attempting to say it with everything he feels for Igor. It works. His voice changes.

After those past few hours, there’s nothing left in them but simple affection. They make the most it, only sobering when the approaching daylight becomes impossible to ignore.

“Did we make noise?” Buddy asks, worried more about himself than Igor.

“Nothing to worry about.”

“The staff gossip. And my parents won’t approve.”

Igor wipes come and sweat from his chest with his blue sweater. “They won’t find anything.” Then, pulling on the sweater and standing, “Let’s go for a swim.”

\\\

Igor takes them to a lake Buddy’s never been to before. It’s secluded, empty, and quiet.

Igor wears the sweater into the water, assuring Buddy enough of the evidence will have been destroyed so that the maid will suspect nothing.

In the water, they are inseparable. Buddy couldn’t bear distance now, not when their night together is ending. Questions and doubt taking the place of its euphoria.

Igor doesn’t seem to share these concerns but he tolerates Buddy’s with care. He’s reassuring, reaffirming. He endures Buddy’s clinging with patience and kindness.

\\\

At breakfast, things are tense. Buddy’s parents are in the midst of a row and Buddy is nervous he might do something foolish and somehow give away the events of last night.

Igor has no interest in enduring this. After he’s had his eggs and some toast, he announces he has sheet music to pick up in town and excuses himself.

Buddy waits a half hour, ignoring his parents comments about Igor, before going after him.

\\\

He’s at a newsstand near the square. Already having made his purchase, he’s leaving. Buddy calls out.

Igor waits for him to dismount his bike then offers a loose cigarette. “Need some?”

“No, I just – I wanted,” _to be with you._ Self consciousness stops him from finishing. Consciousness of other people around them. Igor’s eyes on him make him squirm. “You know, I’m going to go. I’ll go.”

Igor gets in front of him with a few quick strides. He nods towards a small vacant side street and they walk. Their hands brush and for a moment, he takes hold of Buddy’s.

Buddy stops, retreating closer to the wall. “Is it alright I came here?”

Igor shakes his head, not in answer but in disbelief. He glances back to the square, checking the coast is clear. It is and so he is free to crowd Buddy up against the wall and kiss him. It is answer enough.

\\\

It’s another one of those days when Buddy has been left alone with the house. He keeps to his room, leaving for only quick trips to the kitchen.

It’s hot. He builds a fort in the shade of his bed. It’s just a few sheets and pillows. He surrounds himself with books and empty notebooks, pens and cigarettes.

There are bursts of inspiration between the hard tedious work. And abrupt pauses where he’s left frustrated and unable to continue. It’s in one of these breaks that he fetches some peaches from the kitchen. Fresh from the tree, just washed. He eats one as he skims Conrad’s _Heart of Darkness_. When he finishes, he tosses the pit vaguely in the direction of the waste paper basket and reaches for another.

Growing bored with the book, Buddy turns to the peach. Ripe, the soft surface gives under his touch. He traces the dent along its center. Violent impulse takes him and he shoves his finger through. Juice runs from the wound, dripping down to his chest. He does not relent. He pushes further until he feels the course surface of the pit. Until it falls out the other side.

Using his thumbs, Buddy widens the gap. He’s making a mess and enjoying it far too much to stop.

A thought occurs to him, another primal impulse. He slips one hand beneath the waistband of his swimsuit. The juice on his palm feels slick as oil as he takes hold of himself. It feels good but it could be better.

He uses the peach itself. Fits it to his body, uses it until he comes. He sets it carefully on the hard wood floor beside him before he falls off to sleep.

\\\

Igor wakes him with kisses across his chest, moving lower with each. Buddy’s consciousness is slow to return, to remind him of the mess he is. Igor pulls Buddy’s shorts down and drags his tongue through the thatch of hair there. He pauses at the taste.

“What did you do?”

Buddy goes red and tries to sit up. Igor stops him with a firm hand on his chest and spots the peach. He picks it up and smiles as Buddy’s come oozes out the middle.

“I see.” He pushes a finger in.

“Please, don’t,” Buddy says.

Igor shushes him and pushes deeper, two fingers now. When he removes them, they’re dripping. He makes to lick them clean.

“Please, don’t do that,” Buddy tries to grab it from him. He doesn’t know why. He wants Igor to do it. He wants those fingers in his mouth, wants to see him eat the peach whole. The need is so fierce it surprises Buddy.

Want turns to panic when he remembers how little time they have. Igor will leave and he will take his love with him.

Igor sucks his fingers clean and Buddy can’t contain the sob that rips through his chest. It ruins the moment, breaks Igor’s concentration.

“What’s the matter?” Igor asks, setting the peach aside.

Buddy curls in on himself, trying to force the emotion down. He clutches at his own hair and face. Igor touches him. Buddy twists into his arms.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Buddy chokes. They stay there on the floor until his fit subsides.

\\\

Igor fills the tub and tells Buddy to wash up. Then he runs down to the kitchen for food and (mostly) drinks.

They retreat to his bed. Buddy doesn’t dry off or dress, despite the risk of being caught. He wants as little between them as possible.

“I didn’t think,” Buddy says, feeling immature but speaking anyway, “I never would have thought you’d like me.”

“I tried to tell you.”

“When? How?”

“The bookshop. The game.” Igor kisses the approximate spot of that pinched nerve.

“I didn’t realize. It wasn’t ‘cause I didn’t like you.”

“I know.”

“It wasn’t about you.”

“Was it about someone else?”

Buddy thinks of Harris. He thinks of all he allowed himself to believe could happen between them. And then he lets it go.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. They’re sharing a bottle of beer. Buddy takes it and drains it. He lets the bottle fall away and presses his face into Igor’s chest hair. “We wasted so many days.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Igor lights them a cigarette. “We’ll make the best of what we have left.”

\\\

Buddy spends the night there. He falls asleep beneath Igor’s full weight. When he wakes to find it gone, he feels unbearably light, untethered.

Back in his room, Buddy dresses and disassembles his fort. Miraculously, there’s nothing incriminating on the bedclothes. Only the floor, which is easy to wipe away.

Igor is at the table outside, having lunch. His parents are there, too, still in sour moods. They ignore Buddy as he joins them. He tries to catch Igor’s eye, just to say hello, but he won’t look at him.

The food is cleared away, fresh espresso brought out with cut fruit. Buddy tries to figure out what he’s done wrong. Igor clears his throat and says he has an announcement.

“There’s been a change of plans. I’ll be leaving early.”

Oh, Buddy thinks. There it is.

“Is something the matter?” His mother asks.

“No. But Coco’s picked up some work in Bergamo. Instead of traveling straight to Paris, we’re going to stop there for a couple of days.”

“When do you leave?” His father asks.

“Tomorrow.”

“How will you be getting there?”

“She’s keen to try out her new car.” Igor smiles but stops himself. He glances across the table. Buddy stares back over the rim of his teeming wine glass.

“So sudden,” Buddy’s mother says. “Are you packed yet?”

“Almost done.” Then, “I would like to invite Buddy.”

A comical stutter passes through Buddy’s body. He chokes on his wine, spills it on the tablecloth.

His father is equally surprised. And a little suspicious “What for?”

“Coco and I will be taking the train out of Bergamo. Buddy can come and drive the car back.”

“What do you think, son?”

Buddy nods. “I’d like to.”

“Then you’d better get packing.”

\\\

The next day, they bid Buddy’s parents a quick farewell and head off to Coco’s. With all Igor’s baggage – Buddy has only his backpack – they can’t take the bikes. The gardener is made to play chauffeur.

Lizzie is there, waiting to send them off. Coco must have told her. They’re friendly, after all.

Brief as their first meeting on the stairs, Igor and Lizzie say goodbye and exchange parting kisses. Buddy does not get off so easy.

“Bring me back a souvenir. Have fun,” she says, smothering him in a hug. “Take care of yourself, wild man.”

When she’s gone, Coco gives Igor the keys. “I didn’t get much sleep. You drive. And you,” she turns to Buddy, “You sit up front with him.”

She lies down in the back but doesn’t go straight to sleep. The three of them smoke and talk about their plans.

“Coco booked the rooms,” Igor tells him. “You’ll have your own.”

“I’ll be busy with work so you can keep Igor company while I’m away.”

“I have work to do, too,” Igor says, indignant.

“But you have a guest. Don’t neglect the boy.”

Buddy listens to their bickering. When it subsides, he gets up the courage to ask about Coco’s work. She explains that her friend in Bergamo is putting on a play. It’s a small production but, as this friend is a respected artist, Coco is happy to help.

His cigarette runs out and he drops the stub into the ashtray. Before he can get himself another, Coco’s elegant hand reaches out, offering hers.

“I’m going to sleep,” she says. And the moment Buddy takes the cigarette, she does, turning over and pulling her hat down.

Silence takes the place of her presence. Igor focuses on the road, Buddy on the lipstick of the cigarette.

A hand on his knee breaks the tension. Buddy looks up and finds Igor, still with his eyes on the road, smiling in a way that Buddy knows is for him.

\\\

They make several stops along the way and with each they become more accustomed to each other. Coco handles them both with that same demeanor she does everyone. But observing her with gas station attendants and the stray unwelcome admirer helps Buddy to see the shades of her cool. He’s able to tell that she likes not only Igor but also he himself.

In their moments alone, he and Igor share stolen kisses and make plans for the city.

“How much does she know about us?” Buddy asks.

“You don’t need to worry,” Igor tells him. It’s not an answer but it is honest and puts Buddy at ease.

\\\

They arrive in the evening. The hotel is small but lavish. They have entire floor to themselves. Coco claims one bedroom, Buddy another. There’s no mention of where Igor will sleep.

Three days to kill. They establish their routine on the first. Coco and Buddy sleep in. Igor is finished with his daily work by the time they come together for breakfast. Coco excuses herself to head to her friend's theater. Buddy and Igor have sex and shower together. They leave and stay out late.

The third night is Buddy’s favorite. They go out and drink too much. Not to get drunk but because they love drinking together. They run through the empty night time streets, singing, laughing, showing affection shamelessly. They vomit on the sidewalk, retching til they cry. It doesn’t even matter because they are there to help one another wash up in a fountain. They help each other back home.

\\\

They arrive at the train station with just enough time for farewells.

Coco is first, handing him the keys to her car. “Get it back in one piece.”

Her tone holds a warning. He understand he’s to be careful, to keep his emotions – his drinking – in check. He promises he will do well. She kisses his cheek, says goodbye, and gets on the train. Her way of giving him and Igor privacy.

There must be lipstick on Buddy’s cheek because Igor raises a hand to wipe it away. His thumb rubs a slow arc over bone. Buddy wants to take it into his mouth. He wants to do so many things but they are limited by the passengers and pedestrians around them.

Igor’s hand moves to cup the back of Buddy’s skull, bringing him close. He presses a hard kiss to his cheek. The pressure speaks and Buddy wants to answer. Wants so badly tears well up in his eyes.

But then they’re parted. Igor takes a wide step back, takes a drag off his cigarette. Then he passes it to Buddy, leaves it with him.

The speakers say something in Italian, filtered and crackling. An attendant calls for all to board.

Igor climbs in and takes a seat beside Coco. His eyes fall on Buddy and remain there until the train is moving, until it is out of sight.

\\\

He takes the same roads they drove on the ride up. He looks for landmarks he noticed on the way but they’re difficult to spot in reverse. The gas runs low and he stops to fill up at a familiar gas station. He remembers it’s the one where Igor followed him to the bathroom and sucked bruises on his shoulders at the sink.

While paying, he asks if the phone out front makes international calls. The cashier gives him directions and prices in Italian. Buddy follows better than he expects to.

Lila picks up after the first ring. “Hello? Who is this?”

“It’s me.”

“Hey, baby brother, how are you? Back from your trip?”

“On the way back now.”

She pauses. “They’re gone?”

“Yeah.” 

“So. How'd it turn it out?”

“He was – ” he chokes. “Well, it turned out well.”

“Are you sure?”

“I didn’t want it to end. Lila, what do I do?”

“Oh, Buddy.” Her voice is gentle but there’s sadness in it. He knows she doesn’t have an answer. “You just have to let it be. Feel what you’re feeling. It won’t hurt so much in time.”

“I can’t stand it. I’m not – He’s gone, Lila. He’s not coming back.”

“You don’t know that. And even if he isn’t, isn’t it better you two met? That you had what you had?”

He reflects on that as he’s driving home. By the end, he still doesn’t know.

\\\

Six months later, their little corner of Italy is blanketed in snow. The house is alive with holiday spirit.

Buddy comes home around midday from a morning out with friends. There are fewer and fewer every visit, all of them moving on. Soon it will only be him and Lizzie.

He has his headset on, volume up loud. He’s traded jazz for piano instrumentals. Every note reverberates from his skull through his skeleton.

The maid hears him coming and calls out in French. She’s been helping him learn. He responds without self consciousness, despite his accent.

His parents are in the den, looking over student applications. After Igor’s stay they decided to resurrect the tradition. Uninterested, Buddy moves to another room.

He can hear the phone ring over his music.

“I’ll get it,” he shouts, jumping up and going to the phone in the hall.

He only takes off half his headset to answer. “Hello?”

“Buddy? Is that you?”

It’s Igor. Buddy yanks the headset down to his collar and sits on the chair beside the phone table.

“Hi,” he says, shell shocked. “Hi, how are you?”

“I’m well. And you?”

“I’m good. I’m good. I – I miss you.” He can’t help it.

“I miss you, too. Very much.”

Buddy’s heart could burst.

“I have some news.” Igor goes on.

“Yeah? What?”

“I’m getting married. In the spring, we think. Coco’s already agree to design the dress.”

Buddy betrays so much, too much, by going silent. He tries to recover but the damage is done. “That’s wonderful. Wonderful news, I – “

His parents interrupt, joining the call on the phone in the study. They’re cheerful and Igor is polite.

“Will you be coming back?” His mother asks. “We’re having a Christmas party soon.”

“I don’t know,” Igor says. He tells them about his engagement. And shares more exciting news about his ballet being produced in New York.

Buddy sits motionless until he hears his parents signing off. They hang up and for what feels like the last time, Igor and Buddy are left alone together.

The silence is Buddy’s to break. He takes a deep, shuttering breath, trying to think of what to say.

He says his own name. As if it were precious, as if it were Igor’s. He says it again and again, begging Igor to remember.

He does. And he speaks so soft and sweet, with such tenderness and love. Buddy doesn’t understand what’s gone wrong, what’s happening. His heart breaks.

The call ends. Buddy gets up but he doesn’t know where to go. There’s a fire lit in the dining room. It beckons him over, promises him warmth. He sits down before it, curled up like a child. Music still plays on his headset, the piano more haunting than beautiful now.

He tries to remember what Igor looks like, what he looked like when they were together. His mind offers him the image of a pool. Small but deep. A body distorted beneath the water, a blur.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
